


Memento

by RhineGold



Category: Stargate Universe
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:02:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29705151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RhineGold/pseuds/RhineGold
Summary: There is mud on Rush’s face.
Relationships: Nicholas Rush & Everett Young
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Memento

**Author's Note:**

> (Written in 2012)

There is mud on Rush’s face.

No one else seems to notice, or are very good at pretending as such. Hell, he is pretending as such. They are all a bit dirty, a bit worn out and dusty. The hem of his borrowed fatigues may never be clean again, with all this mud. But Rush had been fastidious, Rush had been aloof, not helping with the gathering of plant samples, not digging free some of the loamy soil for transport back to the ship. 

Instead he had spent the day wandering around the makeshift campsite, climbing a tree at one point and hiking to the top of a nearby ridge the next. Park said he appeared to be making notations about the stars, strangely starkly visible during the daytime in this strange, thin air. Volker would perhaps have understood what he was doing, but Volker wasn’t here, resting aboard Destiny instead after a bout of illness. 

And so he feels bereft without his other half, rooming in a low, cramped tent with Rush instead, doing his best to be useful, to enjoy the fucking fresh air for a change. But now something has obviously happened and there is mud on Rush’s face. 

Earlier in the day, the Colonel had vanished for some time. He’d excused himself to check in with Scott via the Gate and not returned until some time later, fetching them for dinner. 

Rush sits huddled against one of the massive storage bins, looking small and adrift. He keeps his arms curled around one another, practically hugging himself, letting his hair hang down over the streak of mud. Through his stubble, he can just make out more mud, trailing from his chin down to his throat, where it disappears beneath his own overly-large fatigues. 

The mathematician looks exhausted, looks unhappy. He looks sad. 

Across the fire, Young is telling a story to Greer, using animated hand motions. He sits confidently, legs spread and braced wide, creating a table for his plate of food. Greer is laughing heartily and even Park is joining in, snickering and leaning none-too-subtly against Greer’s shoulder. Maybe it’s a good thing Dale is still ill. 

When Young growls out a particular line of dialogue, a low, threatening tone punctuated by a comical gesture, Rush does not laugh. He flinches. 

Brody isn't imagining that. 

In the firelight, he can see where Young has attempted and failed to scrub the mud off his hands. There are two deep, dark stains at his knees, matching the shade on Rush’s back. 

As Young’s story ends, the group settles into laughter, into catcalling and echoing the funnier portions. Rush silently excuses himself, nearly staggering towards the tent. He is obviously exhausted. 

And there is mud on his face. 

~*~

_There are knees digging into his thighs, a hand smashing into his jaw. The mud is in his ears now - he is sinking lower and the feeling of being held by liquid hurts more than his own skin. He bites his tongue, snarling around the pain, one hand coming up, fingers claws. It’s not enough. It’s never been enough. The leverage, the hate, the burning need to prove. It is never, never enough._

_Rush screams as Young twists the fist on his jaw, making something pop, making him see stars._

~*~

The fire has dwindled, the stories nearly petered out. Young is subdued now, staring at the flickering flames and Park is curled against Greer in an embrace so intimate it seems voyeuristic to be sharing a log with them. Brody has finished the last of his rations and is laying back, head on the log as he stares at the stars overhead. Strange that they had so fascinated Rush early, only to lose his interest now. 

He steals another glance at Young, watches his jaw set into a grim line as he leans forward to poke at the ashy heap that remains of their campfire. The few other miscellaneous crew members begin to stagger up, stumbling towards their beds. 

Finally, the silence is too much for him and Brody gets to his feet. He has made roughly three paces towards the tent when a hand closes around his upper arm. He knows by touch that it is Young, though he cannot recall him ever having done so before. He’s seen him touch Rush enough the same way - a grip, firm, but not forceful, simply too ever-present to ignore. 

Their eyes do not meet as he half-turns to acknowledge him.

“You’re, ah…” Young licks his lips, voice sliding over the words in a way that is simultaneously intimate and unfamiliar, as though he is unaccustomed to speaking softly, which could not be further from the case. “You’re in with Greer tonight.”

The words are confusing, make no sense, and Brody seeks his eyes then for some kind of explanation. 

Young’s mouth is set in the same grim line and he does not return the eye contact.

He could say no. He could shrug him off and stalk the five steps into the tent, sealing himself and Rush away from this man, even if just for one night. But what good would that do in the long run, he wonders. What would it cost him, cost Rush, tomorrow, the next day, back on the ship. 

‘No one likes a scene, Adam,’ his mother used to say. Least of all Rush.

But to step back, to acquiesce is an abandonment. A coward’s move. To step back would be to literally throw Rush to some kind of wolf. Adam Brody has always wanted to be a brave man. 

His throat is tight and his gut roils with guilt as he takes a step away from Young. Away from Rush’s tent and towards Greer. Adam Brody has always wanted to be a brave man. But he is not. Not just yet. 

~*~

_The mud is under him, around him, not surrounding him because on top there is nothing but Young. A hand fists in his hair and he cannot breath for the arm pressing down on his throat. He claws at what he can reach, which isn’t much - a sleeve, a shoulder, never finding purchase, never finding skin. Young has found his skin and gone over it, around it, under it, and he is a drowning man again._

_It takes too long to realize there is water in his mouth and that it is saliva and that there are lips on his, chapped and hard, teeth jutting and banging his own._

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> I've heard a rumor that Tumblr is starting to delete blogs with pornographic fiction so I'm migrating my fiction blog's works here.


End file.
